Charlotte
by Miss Kite
Summary: Random sketches from the life of one Charlotte Acton, a young woman trying to make her way through through the world, who finds herself in an interesting relationship with her employer...a modern interpretation of Jane Eyre.
1. A Beginning

**After a long absence (and more than a little brainstorming), I have finally returned to the world of _Charlotte_. The reviews on the previous chapters were simply inspiring-thank you all for your kind words and praise! You will all receive cookies (virtual ones, if that's all right). Believe it or not, I am actually going from the beginning this time...I will attempt to work all the way through, even if it takes me several years. Which it very well might.**

**Enjoy-reviews, as always, are _very_ welcome.**

**Prologue**

_I lost my parents first._

_I was so young, though, that I'm pretty sure I didn't realize it. Many times I've wondered how things would have worked out if God had dealt me a different hand—if I could have remained an ordinary toddler with a mommy and daddy, blissfully living in a one-bedroom rental in Connecticut. But once His cards are given out, there's no giving them back._

_I was two when my parents, Charles and Emma Bell, became numbers in the national statistics of drunk driving victims. I have no memories of them, and that should be almost a blessing—no memories, no pain, right? Wrong. It stings more this way, I think. My time with those two smiling faces in the family albums was snatched away from me before I even knew it was in my hands._

_I was placed in the care of my father's brother, James, owner of a general store in the blink-and-you'll-miss-it town of Blakewell, Massachusetts. Him, I remember. Tall, strong, with huge hands and a face so much like my father's that I sometimes have trouble telling them apart in my mind._

_He had three children of his own—Jack, Isabel, and Georgia—but he made no secret of the fact that I was his favorite. He'd bring me special treats from the store, stay up late into the night spinning fantastic tales for my ears only, make me feel like I was the only one in his life who mattered._

_I suppose Isabel's piano teacher must have mattered a bit as well—she and Uncle James ran off together a few weeks before I entered the first grade. He didn't forget about me, though; he applied for custody, hoping I could come and share in his new life. The judge found my uncle disgusting: a man who would abandon his wife and children, but not his __niece__._

_Needless to say, I stayed with my Aunt Ramona, now a divorcee and single guardian to four children. Even in my uncle's presence, I had never felt part of their family—now, in his absence, I was a total outsider. If any visions of a tortured Cinderella figure come to mind, please push them aside. I was never forced to do all the housework, never dressed in dirty rags, never locked in the basement without dinner._

_But I __was__ ignored. At every meal, every game my cousins played—I was invisible. For years, I tried to make myself noticed, talking loudly and cheerfully or following one of them around. Nothing worked—my only rewards were a sharp reprimand or a "leave us alone!" So I stopped._

_I found some relief from their maddening exclusion at school. I wasn't a social butterfly, but I had friends, companions who made recess and PE tolerable. I never told them about what happened at home, not even when Aunt Ramona's boyfriend would come over, watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, or the crisp autumn day when he stole my childhood and made sure I never saw the world through the same innocent eyes again._

_I began pouring my soul into art—my life became a whirl of colors, perspective, lines crossing over each other and bending into the world around me. I pored over books on the great artists in my high school library, attempting to reproduce their works in my own cheap sketchbook. Art class became my salvation, and my grades in other subjects began to drop as I spent hours upon hours on every drawing, every painting. I slowly retreated into myself, deeper and deeper down a dark stair leading to a place where no one could reach me._

_I almost made it there-__and t__hen Hannah saved me._


	2. An Unlikely Savior

Creative title, I know...

I originally wrote this little scene as a 14th birthday present for my sister. She and I are both fans of the 2006 version of _Jane Eyre_, and as we had long ago planned out what a modernized version of the story (set in NYC) would be like, I decided to have some fun with the idea. I realize this comes in right in the middle, but it's based on the scene where Mr. Rochester talks to Jane after she saves him from the fire in his bedroom. Only in this version, she saves him from a crazed mugger. Or something. I haven't decided yet.

So I don't own the story, Charlotte Bronte, or any of her characters, though the novel's in the public domain now, I believe. I've also only been to New York once, so if there are any glaring errors, please let me know.

Reviews appreciated...:)

*******

It was nearly one by the time Mr. Haworth and Charlotte once again found themselves at the police station entrance. An officer had escorted them back to the door, and after making somewhat useless apologies for the lateness of the hour, returned to his duties. Charlotte watched as Mr. Haworth pulled on his coat, the long gray one that hung on the hook in his office. He straightened the collar—_he always has to fix something_, she thought—and let out a long breath. She studied his face. He had teased her about his becoming an old man, but she had never seen the signs of his age as clearly as now. The two creases between his eyebrows seemed carved in, a permanent expression of concerned thought. All the lines and tiny wrinkles of his skin looked deeper, and she noticed them in places she hadn't before: around his eyes, at the corners of his mouth. Everything about him appeared hard and rigid, as it always had been, but as he stood, staring at the tiled floor with his hands slowly fastening his coat buttons, Charlotte saw something else in his features. _Weariness_ was the word that popped into her brain.

She watched his hands do up the last button, then pause. Glancing up, she saw his eyes steadily locked on her own. Her gaze reflexively flicked off to the clock hanging on the wall behind him.

He laughed. "All this, and you're still afraid of me."

Charlotte forced herself to look him in the eye. "I was never _afraid _of you, sir."

"Of course not." He opened the door and motioned for her to go before him. She quietly slipped past and out into the night.

The rain was not coming down as heavily as it had been earlier. It dusted the street in tiny droplets of water that could scarcely be seen except in the light of the street lamps. The wind had also quieted, leaving the street strangely still and silent.

_To think I'm walking around this section of Manhattan, at this time of night_, thought Charlotte as she descended the steps to the glistening sidewalk. _If I were here alone, I'd scurry back into the police station and wait for sunrise. _But she wasn't alone, and the very idea wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She was safe—he was here.

"That officer said the 51st Street station was just a couple blocks in that direction," said Mr. Haworth, nodding his head towards the next intersection. "We'd better get a move on—I'm not one for wandering around this city at one in the morning."

Charlotte nodded and walked with him, drawing her arms close about her. The breeze had picked up once again, and seemed to have lowered the temperature several degrees. She looked down, focusing on the pavement in front of her and working hard to keep up with Mr. Haworth's rather brisk stride.

Neither of the two spoke as they made their way down the street. They were forced to wait at the intersection as cars filled with partiers, night-shift workers, and scores of others sped by. Mr. Haworth glanced down at Charlotte, standing huddled beside him.

"Are you cold?"

She hastily shook her head. "No, sir."

"How stupid of me for asking—I'm sure that blouse and skirt are keeping you nice and cozy. Here." He began to unbutton his coat.

"Oh, no, sir, please—you don't have to…"

Her words trailed off as he removed the coat and placed it over her shoulders, and as he did so, came closer to her than ever before. She could see the finely-woven threads of his tie, the tiny dots of hair coming in over his throat and chin. He stepped back again and examined her.

"It's a bit large, but it'll do."

The crossing signal flashed the green "walk" symbol.

Charlotte realized she had been holding her breath.

*

The train that would take Charlotte across the East River and into Brooklyn would not arrive for another fifteen minutes. She sat on a bench, listening to the echoes of laughter and conversations from farther down the platform reverberate off the beige brick walls. _This truly is the city that never sleeps_, she thought. She had expected the station to be deserted, considering the hour—_but I still have much to learn about New York._

Charlotte pulled out her well-worn Metropolitan Transit Authority map, stifling yet another yawn. Having to ride the subway home from a radically different location, without the reassuring chaos of rush hour, would normally have sent her mind into a spinning whirl of anxiety. But she found her thoughts strangely clear as she once again traced the route back to Midwood.

_Maybe I'm just happy to be alive, and somehow everything makes sense—including subway lines._

Mr. Haworth had been standing still, pacing, then stopping again ever since they had descended to the platform. His expression looked much as it did on the evenings Charlotte saw him after a long day's work, though the fatigue was now especially evident. Even after the events of that night, she had not expected him to be any different. Of course she remembered the flash of fear in his eyes, but never had he lost his calm or control.

_I just wish he might say something_, she thought as her heavy eyes drifted back down to the map. _Thank me, ask me if I was scared._

"You think you'll be able to make it home safely?"

His voice startled her out of her little world. She glanced up at him—he was standing near the edge of the platform, arms crossed.

_Figures he'd ask me something no-nonsense. _"I called Alice Fairfax, the woman I live with. Her husband will head down to the station and pick me up."

He nodded. "You have very kind housemates."

"I know I do."

A laughing couple passed between them, and several moments passed before Mr. Haworth spoke up again. "I still hate having you ride down there alone. The trip will take over an hour, you'll be changing trains, by the time you arrive it will be 2:30 in the morning…"

"I'll be careful, sir; there's no need to worry about me. I'll be fine." Charlotte's words were much more confident than the tone in which she said them. _What else can I say? There's nothing he can do for me. I can't expect him to escort me home._ She returned to perusing the MTA map.

"I'm going to ride back with you."

Charlotte started. She stared at Mr. Haworth, bewildered, as he studied the copper tiles beneath his feet. "Sir, I can't let you—"

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to. I cannot risk the wellbeing of one of my most distinguished employees. You live near Coney Island, if I remember correctly—there should be plenty of places where I could spend the remainder of the night."

A small smile formed on Charlotte's lips. It would be impossible to reason with him.

"A smile." Mr. Haworth stepped closer. "A smile is good, but I believe there might be some unspoken words behind it."

"It's nothing, sir," she said, but her face grew more sober. Again, she made herself look at him and tell him what she felt, before it was forced out of her. "It's just that…I don't know how many important and powerful businessmen would go so far out of their way to make sure one of their newest, most inexperienced workers is safe."

He silently held her gaze for a moment, then looked away and spoke quietly. "Not many important and powerful businessmen find their lives saved by such a person."

Noise echoed from deep in the dark tunnel, signaling the train's arrival. Charlotte stood, grateful she would not have to try and reply to Mr. Haworth's last statement.

Mostly empty cars streamed by as the train gradually slowed to a halt. The doors opened, and after letting a lone passenger exit, the two stepped inside. Mr. Haworth chose the first seat he saw, slowly sinking down into it. Charlotte sat beside him. She was unused to being so close to him—they were little more than acquaintances, and she also happened to work for him. Though grateful for his concern, she couldn't help wondering how they would spend the next hour together.

The train started on its way. The warmth of the car filled Charlotte with a wonderful drowsiness, and it took every ounce of her willpower to keep her eyes open. She yawned, not bothering to suppress it.

Mr. Haworth glanced over at her. "I'm not expecting any entertainment from you, if that's what's keeping you awake."

Charlotte smiled again. "I'm a little tired."

"Understatement of the year. Go ahead, get some rest. Don't worry—I'll wake you up when we need to get off."

She nodded and leaned her head back against the window, allowing sleep to overcome her and wash away any of the fearful memories of the night.

*

It was 2:29 AM according to Charlotte's cell phone as she closed it and dropped it back in her bag. Alice had just called, saying Jack was on his way and making sure Charlotte hadn't been mugged—or worse. It came as quite a surprise to her that the trip to the Coney Island – Stillwell Avenue station hadn't been spent alone.

"Who was with you?"

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder—Mr. Haworth was intently studying the route map on the wall. "Believe it or not, my boss."

"That grumpy old man you talk about? Why did he come with you? What were you even doing together? Why are you out so late?"

"He's not an old man, Alice. As for the gritty details, they'll have to wait—I can barely stand up straight, I'm so tired."

Alice, though still burning with curiosity, took the cue and hung up. Now Charlotte stood by the window, watching for Jack's familiar grey Honda Accord. She heard footsteps approaching, and Mr. Haworth's voice from behind her.

"I feel I must apologize for what happened tonight. You shouldn't have seen it…you shouldn't have been there."

Charlotte wasn't sure how to respond to such a statement. _Oh, no, it's fine—I almost get killed every day. No big deal. _She remained silent, and hoped he would continue.

"I've called a hotel just—"

He was interrupted by the ringing of Charlotte's cell phone. She muttered an "excuse me" and hastily opened it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Charlie! It's Jack—where the heck are you? I've been circling around and don't see you anywhere."

"So sorry—I'm inside. I'll come out and wait for you."

She closed the phone and looked at Mr. Haworth. "That was my ride: he's outside, waiting. Thank you for accompanying me; I truly appreciate it. And for the coat," she added, which was now back on its rightful owner.

She turned to leave, only to be stopped by a "Wait!"

Charlotte looked back. Mr. Haworth stood, watching her with an puzzled expression. "Are you really leaving me in such a way?"

She looked at him as if to say, _How else should I leave?_

"Miss Acton, you're the reason I'm standing here, alive and well. We should at least shake hands, and depart as something more than strangers."

He held out his hand, and Charlotte, after a brief hesitation, gave him hers. He shook it lightly, then, after a brief pause, stepped closer and took her hand in both of his, holding it gently. Her blood began to rise to her face. _He shouldn't be this close to me…I can't let him…_

"I knew you'd do me good," he said quietly. "Somehow, sometime—from the moment I met you." He raised his eyes to hers. "I knew I wouldn't mind owing you such an immense debt."

Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find her voice. Finally she managed to say, "There is no debt, sir. I—I'm just glad I happened to be there."

Mr. Haworth laughed. "You save me from certain doom, and you're 'glad you happened to be there.'"

Charlotte felt her heart beat as if it would jump out of her chest. She was flooded with a strange sensation, one that was completely unknown to her. _I need to get out of here…Jack's waiting… _She tried to pull her hand out of his grip, but he only held on tighter.

"And still you try to leave me," he said, almost absently.

"There's a car waiting for me," she replied, wishing to remain there forever but also to run away. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers.

"If you must leave, you must." Mr. Haworth gave her a small smile. "Goodnight, Charlotte."

"Goodnight, sir," she said softly.

She walked away, his words still echoing in her head, his fingers still clasped around her own.


	3. A Cold, Empty Hole

Finally back again...thanks to my three lovely reviewers Bonbonnett, Shiomei, and I am not a dumb blonde for their kind words and encouragement!

This does _not _pick up wherethe previous chapter left off, but you'll probably be able to guess what part it is pretty quickly. I've split the scene up into two parts because it ended up being so freaking LONG, so rest assured that it does not end here. Please tell me your thoughts/criticisms/musings, as reviews (along with cheese and the _Foyle's War _theme music) make my life.

Enjoy...

*****

Charlotte tiredly organized her papers and packed her bag as the clock hand came to rest on the 5. Every motion was a labor—_I must be coming down with something_, she thought to herself. Deep down she knew that a cold or the flu had nothing to do with her weariness, but she refused to acknowledge, even to herself, the actual reason for her sleepless nights and strenuous days.

As she pulled on her coat and fastened the buttons, she again envisioned Mr. Haworth appearing in her doorway with a tiny smile on his face, telling her that he needed to share a bit of news. Then he would announce his engagement to Brigitte and wait for Charlotte to congratulate him, hopefully in an approving tone. It was a scene she had played out in her mind dozens of times, and as each day passed it began to seem more and more believable.

She had been coping with a headache for the past couple days, and she realized now that the last thing she wanted to do was brave the bustling sidewalks and stations. Nothing awaited her at home but Alice with her fretting, Addy's pouting and whining.

_I can take a later train._

She made her way down the hall, quickly slipping past Mr. Haworth's door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his office chair facing the window—he was no doubt on the phone with his fiancée-to-be, making exciting plans for the future. _A future she'll make sure I have no part in._

Charlotte opened the door to the stairwell and began the long climb, her footsteps echoing off the cement walls. She gripped the cold rail hard, attempting not to think about how long the fall to the first floor would be. Her eyes were focused on the flights above, her leg muscles starting to feel the familiar burn as she kept moving upward.

Finally she came to the imposing door that marked the end of her ascent. Breathing somewhat heavily, she jerked it open and stepped out onto the roof.

As always, the common, comforting sounds of the city swirled around her. A slight breeze blew, distorting the commotion from the street, bringing the wail of a distant siren to her ears. Dark gray clouds hung over the towering buildings surrounding Charlotte, clouds that looked ready to unleash a fury of precipitation at any second.

_Maybe it's best not to stay up here too long._

Charlotte began to walk, circumventing various pipes and vents scattered across the rooftop, planning to spend a few minutes looking down upon the action fourteen floors below her, when she caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar shape out of the corner of her eye.

She was not alone.

A man leaned against the balustrade on her left, his back to her. From this distance she couldn't make out details, but he was wearing gray slacks and a white dress shirt, tucked in with sleeves rolled up. His hair was curly and dark with a reddish tone to it—a color she'd only seen on one man before.

Charlotte sucked in a breath. _Time to head back down. _She turned around sharply and made for the door. _Please don't let him see me…_

"Charlotte!"

_Wonderful. _She let out a small sigh and turned towards him. Mr. Haworth was now facing her, his arm still resting on the ledge. "Come over here for a moment!" he called.

Before her trip to see Aunt Sarah, she would have strode over without any hesitation, a tiny smile on her face, wondering what sort of witty observation or amusing story he would tell her. But now there were rumors, rumors about financial troubles and mergers and weddings to wealthy businessmen's sisters. The two of them had talked of all these things before, but always in vague terms. The thought that Mr. Haworth's company might actually be in danger of collapsing or that he was truly going to be married—she had forced it out of her head. But now it all seemed to be coming true, and everyone was talking about it. Everyone except him.

Charlotte reluctantly walked to his side and stood there silently as she waited for him to speak.

Mr. Haworth pointed down to the street. "Look at that unfortunate fellow. He's been trying to hail a taxi for the past ten minutes, but he can't get up enough courage to do anything more than give a little wave as he sees one speed past. Obviously an out-of-towner." He paused. "Almost reminds me of the time I saw you attempting to flag down a cab for the first time. I felt so sorry for you, I had to do something—sorry if I scared you out of your wits in the process."

Charlotte approached the balustrade, laying her hands on the cool cement to give her a sense of balance as she watched the "unfortunate fellow." "You were only trying to help," she said quietly.

Mr. Haworth rested his elbows on the ledge, clasping his hands together. "Yes, I suppose," he mused. "Strange how far we've come since that day. We've become rather close friends, haven't we, Charlotte?"

She nodded, but bitter thoughts flashed through her mind. _Friends usually let friends know about their wedding plans._

He stared off into the distance, letting out a sigh. "Look at this city. So full of chaos and crime. I know plenty of people who would rather give a kidney than come live here. But somehow it's become home to me, and that makes it more gorgeous than any other place on Earth." He glanced at Charlotte. "I suspect you share my feelings."

"Yes—I confess I've become more than a little attached to it."

"Of course it's not hard to get attached to Brooklyn, but what about here? Will you forever associate Manhattan with all the wonderful dreariness that is your job? I guess you wouldn't be too sorry to leave it."

"You guess wrong. I'd be very sorry to leave."

"That is a shame," Mr. Haworth said under his breath.

Charlotte looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He once again turned to gaze out at their surroundings, avoiding her questioning eyes. "I mean that it seems to be my experience that once you become particularly comfortable in a place—happy, even—life decides it has other plans and snatches you up, dropping you in some strange new territory."

"Mr. Haworth, I don't understand."

Sighing, he faced her. "Times are hard, Charlotte. I've told you and you've no doubt heard from other sources that this company is crumbling fast. I'm trying my best to save it, along with all the other directors, but that won't come without some losses." He bowed his head, his face weary and pained. "You'll be one of those who feel it the worst."

Charlotte stared at him for a few seconds, not yet grasping the meaning of his words, then understanding hit her like a blow to the gut. "You mean…I have to leave? I have to leave Thornfield?"

He nodded. "Yes. I tried to put in a good word for you, told them you were a good worker and showed great promise, but as you've only been here under a year…"

"Of course," Charlotte said in a strange, distant voice she hardly recognized as her own. She turned away, hands still resting on the cold cement wall. Her eyes surveyed the tall buildings dwarfing the one they now stood on, the brightly-colored billboards, the endless windows. Abstract thoughts appeared in her mind. _Nothing's changed…everything's just as it was ten minutes ago, ten seconds ago…no one knows, no one cares about what's going to happen to me…_

"I've found several new positions for you, though," Mr. Haworth said softly. "With other companies. Higher pay, more benefits, more authority. This job was never right for you, Charlotte. You were much too good for it."

She tried to smile, but attempting to mask her sadness required too much effort, and she continued to stare out at nothing in particular. The sounds of the street filled the silence, without making it any less painful. Neither she nor Mr. Haworth moved from where they stood.

"You're getting married." The words glided off Charlotte's tongue, but she had no idea why they had even left her head.

"I am." His voice contained no hint of joy or excitement—just a formal, affirmative acknowledgment.

The weight growing in Charlotte's chest became heavier. "Soon, sir?"

"Already back to 'sir'-ing me, are you?" He gave a dry laugh. "Yes, very soon, in fact. But we'll still remain friends, won't we? I sure hope I won't always remain in your head as the imperious old cracker of the whip. I'll still be here in New York, and hopefully we can get you a job close by—maybe even an apartment of your own. It won't be so bad, will it?" His tone was light, but Charlotte heard—or perhaps hoped she heard—a hint of desperation to it.

"No, it won't be." She was lying, and she didn't care. Everything had already fallen apart. All the once-impossible dreams that had began to seem in reach, hopes of being more than a friend to Mr. Haworth, hopes of settling down and exploring life with him, were suddenly gone like puffs of smoke.

_So this is what it feels like to be completely empty._


	4. A Question and Its Answer

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the conclusion of "The Proposal"...

*******

Charlotte, lost in her own world, slowly became aware that Mr. Haworth was speaking. "…but of course, you'll probably become a millionaire, retire at thirty-five, and forget I ever existed."

"No! Don't say that!" She whirled around; he looked up, bewildered at her sudden change. She knew what she wanted to say next, but at seeing him gazing back at her incredulously, not having any clue as to the longing she felt, she faltered. Her chin began to tremble uncontrollably, like a silly schoolgirl's, and she studied the ground, ashamed of him seeing her so weak. "I wish I'd never come here," she choked out.

"Jut because you're sorry to leave?" he asked, with a gentleness that tore her apart. She felt her eyes begin swimming with tears, and she struggled to keep her voice steady.

"Yes. I love Midwood, _and_ Manhattan—I even love this building. I love it here because I finally discovered what it felt like to _live_, to be independent. Nobody was here to breathe down my neck and decide what I should believe or how I should think or act. I was free. I learned so much…and I met you." A fresh sob overtook her, and her words became whispers. "And now I need to leave you, forever, and it's killing me."

Mr. Haworth straightened. "Leave me forever? But Charlotte, we were just talking—"

"It's your wife, Mr. Haworth—Brigitte."

"I have no wife yet."

"But you will, very soon, as you said."

He was silent for a moment. Charlotte let out a shaky breath. "No matter how much you hope, how much _I _hope, things won't ever go back to the way they were. Miss Maring—your bride—does not like me, Mr. Haworth. Do you think I can still hope to be your friend and confidant with her always around, always looking down on me? Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Because one day you _will_ forget me, the plain little girl who just served as your supporter and sounding board when you needed her. Oh, believe me, if I had been born with beauty and money to spare, I'd make it just as hard for you to leave me as it is for me to leave you!"

Her tears had returned, cutting her off and streaking her face as she cried harder than she had in years. She felt as if someone had turned a spigot inside of her, and now everything she'd stored up for weeks and months was flowing freely. _This is pathetic…why does he have to see me like this…_

Charlotte hardly noticed as Mr. Haworth came and wrapped his arms around her, holding her shuddering body tightly to him. Before, she would have been thrilled at such a protective gesture, but now it simply fueled her misery. _I don't want him to touch me. I can never have him—he belongs to someone else now… _"Please let me go," she whimpered, trying to struggle out of his grasp.

"And where would you go?" he asked, not releasing her.

"Anywhere—another city, another state, another country if I wanted to. So _please_, just let me go!" Another effort to break free succeeded, and she stepped back away from him.

"Charlotte…"

"It might be best if I was 'Miss Acton' from now on," she said, wiping her eyes.

"No, listen to me—"

"You have made your choice, Mr. Haworth!" Charlotte snapped. The waves of unhappiness that had enveloped her were now hardening into bitterness, anger. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she almost laughed at how the weather was quickly matching her mood.

She half-wished Mr. Haworth would lash back, give her a reason to walk away with no regrets—_or almost no regrets_. She wanted some reaction, some apology, anything but the powerful gaze that had once frightened her but now only provoked her further.

"Well?" she asked.

He took a long, deep breath, then looked down at his feet. "You're right," he said.

"Right? About what?"

"I have made my choice." His voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable intensity behind it. He looked up at her once more. "Yes…I have made my choice." He came to her and caught her hand in both of his own—she recalled the long-ago night at the Coney Island station. "My love," he said, slowly and softly, "is here. My equal, my _bride_, is here."

She stared up at him, dazed, as his hoping eyes searched hers for some kind of understanding.

"Charlotte…" He sank down to his knees, his eyes never leaving her. "Will you marry me?"

Charlotte couldn't move. She never wanted to—it had to be a dream, the worst kind of dream because she would have to wake up and realize it never happened. She became aware of the oddest things: her skirt flapping about her legs in the breeze, tiny raindrops pricking her face. Finally, she noticed her cold hand still locked in Mr. Haworth's, who was still kneeling down, wearing a pleading expression.

The only words she could manage to stammer were, "But…but I thought…you and Miss Maring…"

"Miss Maring and I?" He let out a weak laugh. "What love could I have ever given her, and what love did she ever have for me? As for my marrying her just to get hold of her brother's funds…" His voice trailed off. "Could I ever do such a thing, when I could have you? The kindest, most beautiful woman I have ever met?"

Charlotte stared at him. _What if this isn't a dream? _"I—I have no money, no friends…" They were pathetic arguments, she knew, but she wanted to hear them defied.

"I don't care," he said earnestly. "Please, Charlotte—please accept me."

The rain now started to come in steady streams; a roll of thunder sounded, much closer than before.

A small smile began to grow on Charlotte's face.

"Do you really love me?" she asked, with a hint of wonder.

"I do: I swear I do with all my heart."

"Then, Mr. Haworth—"

"Christopher."

Her tiny smile flowered into a grin. "_Christopher_…I will marry you."

The look of anxiety he had been wearing instantly transformed into one of absolute relief, and within seconds he was back on his feet, holding Charlotte in his arms and spinning her around, while she laughed and held on for dear life.

Concluding this haphazard dance, he pulled the breathless Charlotte towards him once more. She drew her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest and breathing in his familiar scent. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. _So this is what it feels like to be entirely content._

*******

Lying in her bed that night, studying the various lines and cracks of the ceiling, Charlotte replayed the day's events for the hundredth time, as if to make sure it all really happened.

_He told me I was going to be laid off…I broke down…then he proposed to me. _She laughed quietly. _It's all so absurd—but it's all so amazing._

She stretched her arms upward, then let them drop back down to her sides. She brought her left hand before her face, flexing the fingers. She had no ring yet, _but he said he'd take me out to look for one as soon as possible…and then he'd propose again, 'properly' this time. He told me that at the Thornfield entrance, when we were waiting for a taxi under his umbrella, and I was laughing…and then he kissed me._

Charlotte drew her covers up around her chin. It had been sudden, with no time to think about breath mints or any of the things she thought she'd worry about. He had simply looked at her, as if to garner her approval before he leaned towards her. She remembered closing her eyes, his hand running through her still-damp hair…and then the delivery man running straight into them, carrying several cardboard boxes.

_How romantic._

She turned over to her side so she could see out the window. The wind was wildly tossing the tree branches, and every minute or so lightning would splice the sky, followed by an ominous toll of thunder. She wondered if Mr. Haworth—_Christopher_—was sleeping now in his apartment, oblivious to the pounding rain. _Or perhaps he's like me, still awake and watching the storm. Maybe he's thanking God for making him the happiest creature on Earth._

_Like me._

-- As always, comments/questions/criticisms highly appreciated. I'm not quite sure where I'm going to go with this now...this is all I have written, and I'm considering going back to the beginning of the story (it'll take forever, but it might be worth it). Or I could continue doing scenes like these. So tell me your thoughts if you prefer one way or the other. :) - Miss Kite


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